One Fifth Avenue, by Candace Bushnell
One of life’s intriguing mysteries was how Carrie Bradshaw managed to fund a rapacious Manolo Blahnik habit whilst spending her entire working life sitting in her knickers and vest in front of a laptop in her bedroom typing drivel about men. This was skilfully glossed over, and my enjoyment of the wondrous Sex and the City never suffered from it. Slowly, despite myself, I came to believe that there were female columnists in New York who wrote one loosely worded article a week and got paid so much for it that they could afford an apartment in the West Village and a hoard of designer frocks and shoes that would make Imelda Marcos blush. They could also eat at the best restaurants, drink at the trendiest bars and stay in five-star hotels, no questions ever asked about the room-service bill or minibar.
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